


In your court

by silvervelour



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, commentator trixie, features the return of loveable gay man brian firkus, tennis player katya, wimbledon/tennis au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-09 12:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15267849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvervelour/pseuds/silvervelour
Summary: Zamolodchikova - Katya - encapsulates Trixie’s attention the way that she recalls Martina Navratilova did when she was a teenager. Her execution of the sport is fearless, intense and strategic to the extent that Trixie catches herself wondering how. She doesn’t understand it, it’s baffling, as is Katya’s physique that taunts her every second that she strides across the court, through to the conference room where she recaps on the match.Trixie watches her shoulders, her waist and her thighs that are thick, muscular, hugged tightly by the white shorts that she wears. A skirt lays over the top of them, along with a vest which straps cris-cross in the back, creating diagonal lines across her skin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi friends! this thing has been a while in the works, and was brought to you by my yearly obsession with winbledon, my need for sports player katya, and of course all of the people over on tumblr that encouraged me to go through with it.
> 
> this is hugely british, which is very much me, and unlike all of my other fics where i’ve americanised my writing beyond belief, so i hope you can get down with that??? 
> 
> i don’t know how many chapters this will be just yet, probably no more than 10, but i hope you like it!! this ch is just a short introductory one, but you can trust that they’ll get longer as we go along!! 
> 
> as always, feel free to let me know your thoughts!!

Trixie is running late. 

It’s _30°C_ on the first day of the _133rd_ annual Wimbledon tournament, and The All London club is bustling with tourists, avid tennis followers waiting in queues that stretch on for miles with their viewing passes, the smell of the lawns and sight of white pleated skirts far in the distance. 

The observatory hill is already packed to the brim, early risers having bagged themselves a picnic bench, leaving the remainder of the people seeking to watch the matches that are spread out across eighteen courts, huddled around blankets on the grassy ground.

It’s loud, chaotic, but the sky above is blue and serene, providing comfort to the athletes that prefer natural conditions, the individuals who loathe having the emergency rain covers pulled over their courts. They claim that the sun fuels them, the heat like gasoline to their bones and the wind providing relief for their muscles that begin to ache despite their best efforts.

The stands of the courts themselves are full too, for the most part, made up of the fortunate ones who had succeeded in acquiring a ticket for the first match - the beginning of the two day long round of _128’s_ \- along with others that are merely in attendance as obligated supporters; coaches, children, husbands and wives of the players, all sat pretty and clothed in overpriced _Ralph Loren_ polo shirts.

It provides a vision to the ones that don’t care for maintaining an appearance, are happy to sit and absorb their surroundings with a carton of strawberries and cream in hand, eagerly awaiting the first sign of a player strutting onto the court. It’s barely eleven in the morning, and isn’t going to happen for what most of the organisers believe will be close to one in the afternoon, when they predict the temperature will increase a further _2°C_.

Trixie thinks that it’s madness. 

The humidity is already striking - Trixie knows without so much as stepping out onto the balcony of her hotel, the Ibis in Earl’s court - and works at taming the frizzing strands of hair that refuse to conform to the pattern of loose waves that she’s set them into. The warm orange of the bathroom lighting emphasises her sunburn more than she’d like it to, the redness across her cheeks and her forehead burning beneath the powdered makeup that she brushes across it.

She doesn’t have time for her usual elaborate routine the consists of skincare, tinted moisturiser, eyebrow gel and mascara along with rose coloured lip balm, and settles instead on merely powder to calm the irritation of her skin, a dusting of mascara and a thin coat of lipgloss.

It works well enough, she decides it’ll have to do; there’s a taxi waiting outside for herself and the remainder of the report team that’s due to leave in less than five minutes, and she kicks herself for sleeping through her alarm, knows that she’ll miss her twelve o’clock call time if she doesn’t spur herself on, pull on her shoes and head out of her hotel suite with her handbag secured over her shoulder.

She succeeds in doing so, manages a quick glance in the floor length mirror that’s on the opposite side of the beige room. It tells her she looks ok, looks good, better than she thought she’d be able to achieve, and it puts a spring in her step as she rides the lift down to the foyer of the hotel. She rewards herself with a further once over in the grimy mirror of the the lift also, straightens out her white, short sleeved sheer shirt along with her pale pink suit trousers that are belted, her court kitten heels that she knows are going to leave her with uncomfortable blisters. 

The lift doors open as she turns to face them, steps out with a rejuvenated energy in her step. She crosses the foyer to a small patch of the waiting area when she spots her team, all congregated around a suede sofa that’s surrounded by what Trixie deems to be horrendously patterned carpet; Trixie wants to send it back to her grandmothers house in Wales where it belongs.

They greet Trixie with polite nods, mumbled _good morning‘s_ that do nothing but irk her until she rounds the group, places herself on the arm of a lounge chair next to her co-commentator for the tournament.

 _Brian_.

He looks up at her with caffeine charged eyes, the whites of them bloodshot, and squeals at her arrival. It’s a stark contrast to the mundane hello’s and finally’s that she’d received from some of the producers, the workers that stay tucked away behind the scenes, and she’s grinning despite herself, not daring to resist when Brian pulls her into a crushing side hug.

Trixie allows him to press his face to her chest - it’s laughable, he’s her favourite person - and uses up the seconds that it takes him to pull away to acknowledge that his outfit matches hers. It’s predictable, they’re more in sync with one and other than Trixie’ll every admit, and she’s prodding him in the shoulder that’s covered in the material of a sheer white blouse, his bubblegum pink pants that make him a mirror image of her.

“I can’t believe you had the audacity-“. Brian huffs.

“-To leave me waiting down here by myself while you made yourself fashionably late”. He concludes.

Trixie cackles, receives exasperated looks from the team as Brian jokingly tells her to _shut up_. She’s loud, and knows it, but doesn’t apologise, instead scoffs to herself, slumps her body against Brian’s. He lets her do it, and is hooking his arm loosely around her shoulders, hand her a luke warm cup of tea in a takeaway cup from the coffee table in front of him. She smiles gratefully, drains half of it within seconds.

“If that’s your way of saying _morning Trixie! You look great today! I can’t wait to spend the next two weeks with my best friend!_ \- then I guess I’ll take it”. Trixie snickers.

She continues sipping at her cup of tea that’s almost a drop away from being entirely drained, only looks past its lid when their manager - a tall greying man named Tony - informs them that their taxi is parked outside. Trixie stands begrudgingly, tugs Brian along with her, towards the seven seater that fits the whole team; barely.

Trixie and Brian take the two back seats, seclude themselves from the other five who chat aimlessly amongst themselves about the production set up for the day, the location of their commentary box. Trixie gathers that it’s going to be on the balcony of the club, much like it is every year - she doesn’t bat an eyelid, it’s her third year attending Wimbledon with the company, her second as their main commentator - and focuses her attention back on Brian, who’s flashing the screen of his phone in Trixie’s direction.

“Huh? What?”. She jumps, her eyes wide.

“O’hara is posting pre-match photos of himself all over social media-“. Brian groans.

“-Look how hot he is, Trix! Between him, Nadal and Gemini I’m not going to be able to breathe for a fortnight”. He dramatises.

Trixie rolls her eyes, chuckles lowly when Brian lifts his hand, motions at swiping imaginary sweat from his brow. He slaps his hand down onto his thigh, slips his phone back into the side pocket of his jeans. Trixie regards him carefully - she’s able to detect where he’s applied a lighter shade of concealer around his eyes in order to cover his dark circles - and blasts a grin that transforms into a smirk.

“I’m gay”. She deadpans.

“So am I, you fucking drama queen. I’m a gay man who’d love to be whacked by one of those rackets any day of the week”. Brian sighs.

He reclines his head against the head rest of the seat, turns to face Trixie with a pout. She shakes her head mockingly, pats Brian’s knee once twice, feels him flinch away from her teasing swats. She sighs too, glances nonchalantly out of the window at the town houses that travel past them in rows, the grander homes that make up the Wimbledon village. They’re the ones that the players of the tournament rent in their teams, an Trixie finds herself envying them when she thinks back to her meagre three star hotel, with its chugging lift and outdated foyer.

She forces the thoughts from her mind when the taxi begins to approach the private car park of the All London club, pulls into a bay that’s reserved for their company, London city reporting - LCR. It’s busier than she expected it to be; there are roughly five other news stations and commentators pulling up in their taxis and mini vans as Trixie cranks open the car door, rounds the bonnet in order to stand next to Brian and Tony the manager.

He nods to both Trixie and Brian approvingly, ensures that the producers are all hot on their heels before he calls over an assistant, requests guidance in the form of a young volunteer wearing an official club shirt to their allocated commentary box. Said volunteer gets them there with ease, sends them swiftly through security with the passes that had been delivered to them the week prior during the qualifiers.

Trixie appreciates the help, the unwavering kindness of the volunteer, and refrains from telling Tony that she probably could have located it by herself when the young boy disappears with a nod, a proud grin adorning his face. It’s her third year, she repeats to herself, and little has changed with the exception of an additional court that’s been renovated, fitted with an emergency automatic roof cover in case of sporadic bouts of rain.

It looks familiar - she tells herself that it should when she spends an entire two weeks in the presence of the buildings annually - and she mentions the fact to Brian when they’re both sat down on the pleather couch in their commentary box, mics wired to their bodies. She turns to him as one of the producers signals five, a whole handful of minutes before they’re broadcasted live on both TV and radio, and nods towards centre courts that’s in plain sight.

“They say they’ve changed the seating for this year, but it looks the exact same to me”. Trixie scrutinises, motions towards the rows of green seats.

“They’re lighter than they were last year-“. Brian establishes.

“-Something about lighter colours not absorbing as much sun so it’ll be cooler for the people in the audience”. He shrugs.

Trixie’s mouth drops in realisation - it’s a change that she should have been able to pick up on without Brian having to inform her - and she mumbles in disgruntlement, asks one of the PA’s on standby to fix her with an energy drink from the vending machine that’s a two minute walk away. She knows that she needs it, is aware that her mind will find itself unable to focus on the sport that she both loves and loathes for the remainder of the day without it.

The PA agrees wordlessly, and turns on his heel towards the exit of the tent-like-box.

They go live to their television segment in three minutes.

Trixie ponders briefly if she’ll be able to spend the seconds that they have until the red light flickering above the lens of camera number four switches on permanently in order to nap, close her eyes to the sound of eager tourists, viewers and coworkers. She knows she’s unable to do so, recognises that she’s acting more out of line Brian usually does with his crassness - it’s a revelation for both of them - and instead paints her face with a smile that isn’t believable to either of them.

“Eyes on the prize, Mattel”. Brian chirps.

“What’s the prize? A lifetime supply of tennis balls?”. Trixie sulks, quips with a smile still plastered across her face.

“Sure, or just balls”. He responds.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up and help me through this day I’ll make sure yours end up being batted across centre court, got it?”. Trixie chuckles darkly. 

Brian rolls his eyes, though nods his head despite himself. He knows Trixie’s joking, knows that her words are meant in a way that’s lighthearted. He gets it, and giggles along with her, pushes his sunglasses back from his eyes and up to his forehead. He swats her teasingly with his flash cards, pokes her in the elbow with the corners of the cardboard. She jumps, whines in complaint once, before one of the producers bellows _thirty_ , and Trixie knows that they have seconds until they’re made to rehash the introductions that they’ve been practicing for days on end.

“Ready?”. Brian questions.

“Yeah, I think so”. Trixie replies.

She inhales, exhales, and then they’re live.

“Good morning! People all across London and those managing to tune in from else where, I’m Trixie Mattel! We’re joining you here from the _133rd_ annual Wimbledon tournament, where this year things are bigger and better than they’ve ever been before. I’m here once again with your favourite Nadal super fan from last year, Brian Firkus!”. Trixie introduces the both of them.

She draws out the syllables of certain words, clouds her usual voice with hints of clearer articulation, and fools the camera with her cheery facade. She twists in her seat - the beige couch is hard beneath her thighs, presses infuriatingly into her calves - and gives Brian the go-ahead; it comes in the form of a brisk nod.

“She’s right!-“. Brian greets, chuckles disbelievingly.

“-I’m Brian Firkus, LCR’s token Nadal super fan, Gemini supporter and general tennis enthusiast! This year we’ll both be providing live commentary from the beginning of the round of _128’s_ , right up until the heavily anticipated final. So, if you’re looking for something more entertaining than your usual _BBC_ folks-“.

“Which most people are”. Trixie interjects.

“-Make sure to stick around!”. He concludes.

*****

The first match that they commentate is nothing short of anticlimactic.

Predictable.

The top seed for the women’s tournament, the player that’s listed first amongst global rankings, Williams, beats her opponent in two straight sets, never dropping a game. Trixie watches in awe, marvels at how Williams, a seasoned competitor, wipes the youngest player from the competition before the day has barely begun. 

Trixie knew from the get go that Plíšková didn’t stand a chance against the eight time champion, owner of twenty five grand slam titles, and observes as Williams delivers ace after ace, scores six to her opponents zero in both sets that send her sailing through to the round of _64’s_. It’s half glorifying, to watch an individual who’s practiced their craft for decades, transformed it into a fine art that others could only ever dream of imitating, along with being crushing.

Her voice is filled with sympathy as she commentates on Plíšková’s serves that she misses, the amount of shots she hits out of court along with the amount of occasions she trips over her own feet. It’s clumsy, inelegant, but Trixie feels for her, tells the audience how she predicts the nineteen year old will come out triumphant in future tournaments; the seedlings didn’t work in her favour this time around.

She vows that Plíšková will return, take on Williams once again because knows, doesn’t have to rely on predictions to be able to determine that Williams will continue to reign over the courts - grass and clay alike - until her crown wilts, deteriorates with age.

Trixie had said the same about Delano, a player that she’d encountered on her first year at Wimbledon. She’d been an intern for a different company, one that hadn’t allowed her to be within a miles radius of a microphone, and recalls mumbling discreetly to Brian who she’d met on set that she’d be at the top of her game within years.

She’d been proven right when over the course of the next handful of years, Delano had persevered, climbed the rankings in order to lodge herself comfortably within the top ten. She’s seeded fifth, Trixie comes to learn, only overshadowed by those that are years her senior, individuals that have won more titles than she’d had birthdays at the age of twenty three.

Trixie’s proud of her.

Sighing, Trixie turns her attention towards Brian, tunes in mid way through the sentence that’s already spouting from him. He looks enthused, excited in a way that Trixie hopes isn’t misleading; she thinks that she’ll fall asleep within the hour if they aren’t provided with a quality battle as soon as the next match commences, even with the large coffee that she’d gulped back sloshing around in her veins.

Brian sniffs once, scratches at his nose. The air smells like freshly cut grass - everything smells like freshly cut grass at Wimbledon - and Trixie finds herself tucking her chin further into her own chest to escape it momentarily, inhales the scent of her perfume that she’d sprayed the day before. It’s worn off considerably, but still provides her with the welcome break that she’s been seeking from her surroundings that smell like grass grass grass.

“Did you hear me?-”. Brian jibes.

“-Actually, scratch that, I _know_ you heard me. Did you pay attention to what I said?”. He corrects himself.

Trixie chuckles, shakes her head dismally. Brian scoffs aloud, much like Trixie knew that he would, and twists his body so that he’s further crowded into Trixie’s space. He crosses his legs, hooks his right ankle over his left, nudges the toe of his tan, suede pointed shoe against Trixie’s shin. She groans, despite the laughter that continues to spill from her lips, reaches to the table in front of them in order to pick up a glass of water.

It’s accentuated with a lemon wedge, and Trixie hates it immediately, scrunches up her face. She doesn’t understand when the world collectively decided that plain water was a bad thing, or where along the line water wasn’t water without artificial flavourings or chunks of fruit. Taking them out of her glass with the tips of her fingers, she transfers them to Brian’s half empty cup, knows that he favours the additional zing.

“I was out of it, say it again?”. Trixie pleads.

“I hope you know I’m about thirty seconds away from squeezing these bloody lemon wedges in your eyes”. Brian retorts.

“Segments-”. Trixie corrects cockily.

“-I think they’re called segments”. She finishes.

Brian doesn’t care. He groans dramatically, bends his flash cards between his sweaty fingertips. They fold at the corners, buckle in on themselves, and Trixie’s left sipping at her lemon free water, ice cubes clattering against her teeth. She sets said glass back down onto the dampened coaster that sits atop of the table, receives an exasperated frown from Brian in response.

“Anyway-“. He drawls.

“-All I said was this next match should be better, it’s Smalls versus Zamolodchikova”. He clears his throat.

His years experience of commentating means he’s perfected the pronunciation, each syllable, vowel and consonant curling around his tongue. Trixie marvels at it; she still struggles with names of the newest players, ones that she’s yet to master in the ways that she has with the players that make their appearances year after year. Medvedev andOstapenko don’t form as naturally in her voice box as Kasatkina or Cibulková, and Brian picks up on it with a quirk of his eyebrow, an attentive hum.

“Any bets on who’s going to win this one?”. Trixie queries.

Outside, it’s hot, molten, hot, but Brian furrows his forehead in concentration regardless, mulls over the statistics of both women before he’s spitting out an answer, uttering the words that Trixie knew that he would; they’ve both followed her career for over a decade, believe that only Williams will be able to send her hopes of winning a fifteenth grand slam title plummeting.

“Zamolodchikova-”. Brian nods.

“-Without a _fucking_ doubt”.

*****

Zamolodchikova does win.

The game lasts a meagre seventy minutes, in which Zamolodchikova defeats Smalls in two straight sets, much like Williams had with Plíšková, only dropping two games in the first set. She plays with an ease that shakes Trixie, has her watching centre court in awe for the second time that day, her voice slurred and trance like as she narrates each swing, each bat of the ball that Zamolodchikova succeeds in nailing.

She plays like she’s been playing since the day she was born, with her feet that rarely skid across the sun hardened grass court, and her arms that flex with each switch of direction. She grunts with each broad whack, too, her lips closing around the air that she draws into her lungs. It’s exhausting, Trixie knows that it has to be, with the amount of effort and energy she exerts on the handle of her racket each game.

Trixie doesn’t stop staring, fluttering her eyelashes against the fan that blasts cool air her way.

Zamolodchikova - _Katya_ \- encapsulates Trixie’s attention the way that she recalls Martina Navratilova did when she was a teenager. Her execution of the sport is fearless, intense and strategic to the extent that Trixie catches herself wondering how. She doesn’t understand it, it’s baffling, as is Katya’s physique that taunts her every second that she strides across the court, through to the conference room where she recaps on the match.

Trixie watches her shoulders, her waist and her thighs that are thick, muscular, hugged tightly by the white shorts that she wears. A skirt lays over the top of them, along with a vest which straps cris-cross in the back, creating diagonal lines across her skin.

They’ll leave her with questionable tan lines, Trixie doesn’t doubt, though Katya doesn’t seem to be bothered; she’s got stacks of bracelets and sweatbands on each wrist that Trixie’s witnessed leave stripes of snowy white across her arms in the previous years, a cotton ankle bracelet sticking out of one of her unevenly risen tennis socks.

Her blonde hair is what Trixie focuses on as she rounds the corner, out of Trixie’s sight. It’s natural, to Trixie’s knowledge, a dirty blonde with sun lightened ends that appear a little scorched, slashed back into a half hearted pony tail that’s looped through the hole in her visor. Her fringe is stuck to her forehead, gapping strands that hang heavy past her eyebrows, dangle irritatingly in her eyes.

Trixie giggles to herself as she attempts to brush them away with a pout, makes a noncommittal comment to their radio listeners about Zamo’s hair struggles in the seconds before they go off air for their five o’clock break. Brian rolls his eyes at her - he’s privy to her long standing adoration for the Russian turned American competitor, along with Williams, Delano - and withholds his complaints when the producers fuss to unclip his mic.

He’s free from the tangle of wires within seconds, stands and pulls Trixie with him, directs them out of the commentary box and towards the staff bar that’s on the first floor of the west wing of the building. It’s two flights of stairs down, but they navigate their way there without an ounce of difficulty, perch themselves on respective bar stools as one of their producers that’s joined them heckles about a strict call time.

They’re tired, Trixie simply nods.

“So, interviews-“. Brian begins, disregards the producer entirely with a wave of his hand.

“-Any thoughts on who you’re going to try to wrangle in this year?”. He sips at the drink that the bartender places delicately on the wooden surface in front of him.

Trixie shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly - they both know it’s a front, interviews are all that Trixie’s thought about throughout the entirety of the qualifying rounds - and takes a sip from her own glass of champagne that’s identical to Brian’s. A sip transforms into a gulp, before the gulp becomes half of the entire glass, and Brian’s grinning at her mischievously over the rim of the flute.

“I’ll tell you who I want to get on board”. Brian emphasises.

“Shoot-”. Trixie gives him the go-ahead.

“-But if you just say Nadal, Gemini and O’hara because you want to the chance to lust over them in person I will be out of here quicker than Plíšková was out of this tournament”. She quips.

Brian shakes his head in disbelief, downs his champagne until the amount left in his glass rivals Trixie’s. He licks across his lips - Trixie’s able to pinpoint where his tinted lip balm has worn off - and shakes his once more. Trixie looks on challengingly, allows herself a brief glance over the bustle of the area, the ball boys and girls that are pacing back and forth, re-energising themselves with litre bottles of water.

It’s electric, the atmosphere, and tugs at each of Trixie’s senses. She can still smell grass, along with the expensive fragrance that the bar has sprayed for the occasion. She’s able to taste the bitter sweet champagne and the remaining notes of coffee that have carried through to the afternoon, along with being able to feel the moist air caressing the minimal skin she has exposed around her neck and ankles; the notion threatens to break Trixie out in an unpleasant sweat.

“Who do you want, then?”. Trixie tries.

“Federer and Liaison, the oldest and the youngest. What about you? You must have at least thought about it!”.

Trixie _has_.

She knows her answer without scanning the disks that are scrubbing in her mind, creating scratches and squeaks that she’s keen to ignore. She blinks them away, uses her eyelids as windshield wipers to her thoughts, and nods her head in confirmation. She’s thought about it, has pictured it in the vivid colours of the neon chartreuse tennis balls, the bright whites of her skirts and vests as well as her bronze skin that Trixie know would compliment the winners trophy, in flecks of gold and brass.

“Zamolodchikova-“. Trixie exhales.

“-We _have_ to get Zamolodchikova”.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you’ve seen me play all week?”. Katya’s interest is peaked. 
> 
> “Yeah”. Trixie breathes. 
> 
> “Think I’m doing good?”. Katya arches an eyebrow. 
> 
> Katya has her crowded in against the sink - Trixie doesn’t understand how - and is breathing hotly into Trixie’s face, warm and moist air tickling at her chin. She’s beaming up at Trixie, twiddling with the zip on her hoodie that dangles at her hip, dragging it from top to bottom menially as Trixie’s eyes follow it. Katya continues her ministrations until Trixie opens her mouth in preparation to speak, and then pauses, rests her hands daintily on the counter each side of Trixie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch.2! things get moving a little in this part (katya’s here, there’s more of brian, i’m pretty proud of it) 
> 
> i just wanted to say thank you for all of the amazing feedback and love for the first ch! i didn’t think so many people would be into such a niche au, but here we are!! 
> 
> as always, i hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

Trixie can hear her phone vibrating. 

She can feel the vibrations, prickling at her skin from where the device sits on the hotel bed side table as she drifts in and out of consciousness, her mind determined to garner all of the sleep possible. It’s irritating; she’s counted five separate messages that have buzzed through in the minutes that she’s been awake, though has refused to allow her eyes to flutter open, has kept them screwed closed against the glow of said phone screen.

Burying her head in the downy pillows, Trixie sighs. She forces herself to pull her subconscious from the depths of slumber, cracks open her eyes to the sight of a still dark room. She doesn’t know the time, though doesn’t doubt that it’s barely half way through the night, around three or four in the morning. It’s still dark, pitch black outside - she can tell from a momentary glance towards the curtain draped window - and is proven right when she grasps blindly for her phone, lights up the screen with a press of her thumb.

It’s half past four.

She groans outwardly, shuffles around in the bed in order to prop up her neck as she opens her messages. There’s a string of them - Trixie’s certain of who’s sent them without checking the contact name at the top of her screen - excitable and flourished with too many exclamatives, sent within a minutes succession of one and other.

 _Brian_.

The bed sheets are itchy against her skin, brushing against her freshly shaved legs as she manoeuvres herself, untucks one leg from the heavy duvet. The duvet bunches itself up between her legs, and she tugs the corner up to cover her bare chest. The room is still cold, though Trixie knows by the time that the sun rises it will be scorching once more, will leave her sweating, melting, scalding and overheated.

**Brian: TRIXIE**

**Brian: I HAVE GOOD NEWS**

**Brian: CALL TIME HAS BEEN PUSHED FORWARD AN HOUR**

**Brian: We get to sleep oh my god**

**Brian: ENJOY YOUR LIE IN DARLING**

Trixie chuckles breathlessly - her throat is dry and sleep knitted as she reaches for the half empty bottle of water on the bedside table - and sets her phone down with a clank. She plugs it in to charge, neglects to send a response to Brian, understands that he doesn’t expect one. She’ll reply in the morning, she tells herself, will agree to greet Brain an hour later than she had for the first and second days of the tournament, a little before twelve o’clock in the foyer of the hotel.

She’s got five hours or so left to sleep, give or take, until she has to rise, prepare herself for the day, and the information settles her as she rolls herself onto her stomach. Her hands weave beneath pillows and the duvet intertwines between her thighs where cotton presses against soft skin, nylon and polyester catching on her grown out pubic hairs.

Trixie’s still more asleep than she is awake, but the pressure that the soft quilt provides to the juncture between her legs isn’t lost on her drifting thoughts that she’s unable to anchor. There’s pleasure, bliss, a satisfactory throb that centres in her clit, and Trixie cants her hips down once experimentally, feels her tender breasts squashing into the springs of the mattress as she does so.

A groan passes between her lips as she perseveres, tepid mewls that become lustrous pants with each clench of her thighs, every buck of her hips that grinds her clit against the fabric. The drag of skin against rough, itchy fibres is intoxicating, and Trixie squeezes her eyes shut when her stomach muscles twitch beneath the layer of fat that’s flattened against the surface of the bed. 

She fucks herself into the duvet, her tactical yet aimless thrusts increasing in speed when she acknowledges the tension that’s building to a release. The room is cold, but she’s sweaty - her hair is sticking to her forehead in messy curls - though she remains swaddled in the bundled up duvet, the pillows that act as insulation.

Trixie’s mouth is open, gapping as she dribbles onto the pillow tucked under her neck, and she knows that she’s seconds away from coming when she grinds harder, fists a corner of the duvet in order to pull it tighter against her clit. The movement send her over the edge, until she’s coming coming coming, whining, high pitched into the room that’s beginning to lighten, the sun rising from behind the clouds outside.

She inhales once, sighs in relief; she’s asleep once more as soon as she’s covered her damp back with the blanket, the room surrounding her perfumed with sex and cheap, floral laundry detergent.

*****

When Trixie next awakens, the room is bright. 

It’s hot - Trixie kicks the covers off of her body as soon as she’s conscious - and the air is stuffy, blocking up her nostrils. She sniffs, notes that there’s a pounding throb beating away between her brows, and groans distastefully.

She opens her eyes to the harsh white of the ceiling, blinks up at it until the pain dissipates to allow her vision to focus from the spread out blur. She flutters her eyelashes, bats away the glare, and picks up her phone from the bedside table when she’s reminded of its existence as it vibrates, beeps twice.

Trixie knows who it is once more - the clock at the top of her screen tells her it’s a little past eleven, she’s slept for a further six hours - and clicks on her messages to see three unread texts from Brian. They’re tamer, not as excitable as his four in the morning rambles had been, and Trixie reads over them with a heavy heart towards the knowledge that she’s going to have to drag herself out of the comforts of the creaky bed, eventually, coif herself into something presentable.

**Brian: TRIXIE**

**Brian: ITS ME AGAIN! Morning buttercup! This is your daily reminder that I love your filthy guts to death (Also it’s your turn to get our coffees today)**

**Brian: See you soon!**

Shutting of her phone with a snort, Trixie tosses it down towards the bottom of the bed, before she’s coaxing herself to sit up, swing her legs over the edge of the mattress so that her feet meet the carpeted floor. It’s as itchy against the soles of her feet as the duvet covers were against her limbs - she’s beginning to think the lack of comfortability is a common theme of the hotel - and digs her toes into the woven threads as she stands.

Her head spins, dizzy in doubt, and her ankles threaten to cave in on themselves, teeter to the side with each inch that she moves across the room, towards the cramped en suite. She catches her elbow on the door frame to the room, and stumbles up to the bathroom counter, braces her hands on the edge of the sink.

She can hear the vent of the bathroom whirring above her, and narrows her eyes at herself in the mirror that fogs up with each heavy breath. She’s standing too close, she knows, yet neglects to step backwards, instead closes in on her reflection. It stares back at her, cocks it’s eyebrow at Trixie’s tousled hair, her overall dishevelled appearance, and Trixie silently dares it to push her further.

The hairs of one of her eyebrows have been brushed the opposite way, presumably from the position that she’d slept in, her head buried into the mass of pillows, and she swipes them nonchalantly back into place. Her eyes are bloodshot, and Trixie finds herself unable to decipher why when she feels refreshed, for the most part, despite the initial exhaustion that’s beginning to ebb away in dregs.

Trixie needs to shower.

It takes the water a handful of minutes to heat up to a satisfactory temperature, and Trixie steps underneath the stream tentatively after throwing up her hair in a makeshift bun. It balances precariously on her head as Trixie washes her body, makes use of the cheap body wash that the hotels provided her with. 

The scent of it is overwhelming - Trixie connects it to the smell of baby powder, overly floral - and doesn’t lather with the suds that she wishes it would. It does its job, however, and she’s switching off the hose within minutes, knows that she has to if she wants to meet Brian in the foyer on time, and wraps herself in her own Egyptian cotton towel.

Contrasting to the bedsheets and the carpet, it’s soft and supple against her irritated skin, and she’s grateful for it beyond belief when she catches sight of the outfit that she’d allocated herself for the day. It’s similar in style to the previous two days - formal trousers, a sheer shirt with court kitten heels - but she knows that the trousers are the most uncomfortable ones she owns.

They’re tight on her stomach, and dig into her skin, as do the white shoes that are giving her blisters just from eyeing them cautiously. The knowledge that she has to wear them makes her miserable, but she knows she wouldn’t hear the last of it from Tony the producer if she differed from herself and Brian’s pre arranged coordinated colour schemes.

Laying them out on her unmade bed, Trixie makes her way back to the bathroom.

She paints on her makeup briskly - a combination of concealer, powder, bronzer, eyebrow gel, mascara, lipstick - and brushes her hair out with a synthetic brush. She curls the strands, then, uses her straightener to perfect the waves that she knows will hold their place throughout the day. Her fingers break the individual curls up, run through them and eradicate tangles that appear in the mid lengths and ends.

She looks _good_.

Grinning to herself, she discards the towel that’s still wrapped around her body, drops it to the floor and pads across the room. She stands nude, takes in the entirety of her body in the stand alone mirror in the corner of the room, before she’s pulling on the clothes that she’s been dreading, stepping into her heels and slinging her handbag over her shoulder.

She’s ready.

The watch on her wrist tells her she has five minutes until she has to greet Brian, and she picks up her phone on her way to the door. She opens it wide, locks it behind her, saunters down the corridor and to the lift with a content smile upon her face that she knows could come off as arrogant to onlookers, in the way that she sways her hips, steps out into the foyer with Brian already in sight.

Trixie doesn’t care.

They’re three days into the tournament, prepared for the round of _64’s_ , and she feels better than she’s felt in all of her previous attendances throughout the years. Trixie’s at the top of her game, she’s certain, and doesn’t bat an eyelid when one of the producers diverts his attention elsewhere because Brian’s there, pulling her into an embrace that reaffirms each of her thoughts.

_She’s at the top of her game._

*****

Trixie and Brian are given a singular break, mid way through their day.

It lasts for half an hour, between the first match that they commentate and the beginning of their factual segment that’s become a staple amongst LCR viewers. It’s Delano versus Kvitova, and Trixie has doubts half way into the third set when Delano is losing three games to four, until she pulls it back and beats her opponent; two sets to one.

The result send Delano through to the third round of the competition, the round of _32’s_ , and Trixie finds herself mulling over if she’ll be able to make it through to the round of _16’s_ , before reaching the quarter’s, and then the semi’s, followed by the final. She knows that Delano has both the stamina and the skill, in addition to the motivation in order to do so, and mutters it to their radio audience as the players leave the court, Brian humming in staunch agreement.

They remain holed up in their shell of a commentary box, made out of white, tent like material. They recline their bodies on the beige sofa, concrete beneath their legs and backs, and turn to each other with proud grins.

“She just keeps getting better”. Trixie breathes.

Brian nods his head slowly; it’s like he’s locked in an inescapable stupor, a daze that renders him speechless, and Trixie nudges him in the knew once, twice, more than a handful of times before his attention leaves the court, travels back to Trixie. He hums lowly, unbuttons the top of his collared shirt as he clears his throat.

“How long do you think it’ll be until she’s up there with Williams? Zamo? Winning titles left, right and centre?”. He questions.

Trixie shrugs her shoulders. It’s the truth - she doesn’t know, doesn’t care to look further into it when one of the PA’s is handing her a large coffee - and it’s a response that seems to satisfy Brian. He scratches at the tip of his nose briefly, gladly accepts his own coffee that the same PA hands him, and begins drinking it down regardless of the burn that tingles across his tongue.

“Maybe a couple of years? She’s got it in her, that’s for sure”. Trixie adds minutes later.

Brian’s drained his coffee for all it’s worth, and Trixie’s paper cup is well on its way to following Brian’s to the rubbish bin that sits just outside of the tent, gathering aforementioned coffee cups and chocolate bar wrappers. She sips at it eagerly, the sugar zinging at her gums, and licks the droplets that remain on her top lip once she’s swallowed down the overly syrupy sweetener at the bottom.

“I wish she’d give me some of her talent-“. Brian huffs.

“-Maybe I’ll be able to get through the next segment without wishing I’d done a biochemistry degree instead, then”. He laughs brazenly.

Trixie doubts it; the factual segment is a favourite of the viewers, the listeners and the general observers, but she knows that the facts that they’re about to relay won’t be interesting, won’t be new and exciting. They rehash the same information every year, watch in disbelief as their ratings sky rocket due to the misinformed and uneducated that find solace in fun facts that Trixie knows should bore anybody with a genuine interest in the sport that she adores.

“Yeah, no, I’ve seen the flash cards for the segment already and they’re _definitely_ as bad as last year, and the year before”. Trixie groans.

Flashes of the recycled facts run through her mind, dart through her temples as quick as the ball boys and girls that scatter themselves across the court, and her attempts to block them out fail as Brian throws his head back in dismay, shakes his head to will away the impending end of their break.

“What god did I piss off to deserve this?”. Brian amplifies.

Trixie thinks the answer might be all of them.

*****

The answer _is_ all of them.

Brian states the first two facts from memory, the flash cards meaningless decorations that sit pretty in his clammy hands. Trixie recites her first three off by heart, too, succeeds in making it half way through the list before her brain demands a glance at the messily scrawled words.

They’re barely legible - Tony the producer had written them out hastily during the first match of the day - and Trixie tells him so in the thirty seconds that they’re given whilst both the television and the radio station broadcast the same breaking news about a new comer defeating Gemini, a six time champion.

They continue after said announcement, Brian staring deathly down the lens of the camera, into the irises of Tony who stands behind it, barking silent orders with brisk movements of his hands. Trixie keeps her face neutral, as serene as she’s able to maintain, even chuckling to herself until she has to glance up towards the ring of red light, utter out the second to last fact.

“This is a fun one!”. Trixie beams.

“Hit me with it”. Brian responds.

“Ok, so, do you know how many balls were used in last years tournament?”. She questions.

Brian shakes his head - it’s the first question that he hasn’t had an immediate response to - and cocks his eyebrow pensively. Trixie laughs, ensures that it’s picked up by both of her microphones, and turns to Brian with wide eyes; it’s all for dramatic effect, the sheer benefit of their viewers.

“Over _fifty_ thousand”. Trixie’s mouth gapes.

“Fifty?-”. Brian double checks, receives a mumbled confirmation.

“-That’s almost as astonishing as my last fact”. He segues seamlessly.

“Tell us, Firkus”. Trixie smirks.

“The longest match ever played here at Wimbledon only happened a couple of years ago, in 2010! John Isner of the United States defeated French player Nicolas Mahut in a match that lasted eleven hours and five minutes. It was played over the course of three days! Can you believe that?”. Brian squeaks.

Trixie can believe it. She’d watched it unfold from beginning to end, had studied the movements of both players when she’d watched it live, initially, on the small computer screen at her internships company office. She’d marvelled at their relentless perseverance, their tolerance for the mind games that Mahut would play with Isner, only for Isner to win the fifth and final set with _70_ games to _68_.

She nods her head, hums so that their radio audience pick it up. She remains silent when Brian rolls his eyes lovingly, jokingly, and listens as he wraps up the segment seconds later, tosses his flash cards down onto the coffee table in front of him the instant he witnesses the red lights glow dim to nothingness.

They’re off air.

Brian lifts his hand to wipe at a drop of sweat that’s trickling down the centre of his forehead, between his brows. He flicks it away - Trixie hates him, she swears - and stands abruptly, crosses the small space of the box until he stands tall in front of Tony, his shoulders taught and back stiff. Tony studies him cautiously, flinches when Brian points over his shoulder to the cards that he’s left atop of the coffee table, and sneers, his nostrils flaring.

“I’m about one fun fact away from legging it to Mexico”. Brian seethes.

“Mexico?”. Tony snickers.

“It’s the furthest away place I could think of, I don’t know, geography and I aren’t friends-“. Brian huffs.

“-But what I do know is Mattel’s with me on this one. She looks like she’s already on that fuckin’ flight to Mexico”. He finishes.

“He’s right-“. Trixie starts.

She stands, stretches her knees and clicks her ankles to rid them of the ache that’s settled. She’s left with pins and needles stabbing through her toes, and cramp that transforms into a throb in her calves. She’s been sitting stationary for too long, she knows, but brushes the discomfort away in the same way that Brian had his sweat, and stands stoically adjacent to Brian’s

“-I don’t know how you think it’s ok to repeat the same things three years in a row but it’s not, no way”. Trixie concludes.

“It’s what the viewers want to see”. Tony counters.

Brian groans audibly, runs his palm over the shine on the top of his head - he’s shaved his head bald, the regrowing hair tickles his fingertips - and Trixie follows, turns away from both men in lieu of heading towards the opening of the box. She peels back the flapping door with her hand, props it open with her elbow, and gets a mere one foot over the threshold before Brian’s there, tugging on her arm.

“Oh my god no, don’t abandon me now, not in this time of need”. Brian chases after her.

“Shut up-“. Trixie cackles.

“-I’m just going to the toilet, I’ll be right back to save you from any more ball facts”.

*****

When Trixie exits the toilet cubicle, she stands still.

She gazes at herself in the artificially lit mirror that pans from one wall to the other, scrutinises her melting makeup and tired eyes that appear lemon yellow in the fluorescence of the bulbs. Her eyelashes are clumped together with mascara that’s smudged due to her persistently watering eyes, and her lipstick has faded from its once bright mauve to a barely there nude that Trixie wipes away with a scrap of toilet paper.

It looks better immediately; a swipe of her fingertips beneath her eyes helps further, means that the grains of dried mascara clatter mutely into the sink. She washes her hands noncommittally, curses herself for her disinterest in the bars of soap that have been carved into the shape of tennis balls, the automatic dispensers that spurt out strawberries and cream scented foam.

She dries her hands off on her shirt - the sheer material becomes see through in splotches - and ducks her when the door to the cubicle behind her opens, gives way to a blonde who’s bouncing on her toes, perching herself at the sink next to Trixie.

Trixie doesn’t look up.

She knows that her hair is disheveled beyond the point of rescue, and is aware of the shine that coats the entirety of her face from the oil that’s seeped through her makeup. It’s evident in Trixie’s posture that she’s seeking to make herself unavailable for a conversation, be it small talk or not, and the woman next to her seems to understand and she busies herself with washing her hands as she hums aimlessly to herself, uses the soap that Trixie had dismissed.

Trixie does look up.

Raking her eyes across the woman, taking in her appearance, Trixie stiffens. Her hair is slashed back off of her face, secured in a hair tie that lifts the face, decreases the fine lines on her forehead. There’s a visor secured around her head, coloured white, a shade that compliments each article of clothing adorning her body.

Trixie’s eyes flicker from the ground up, starting at her feet - white trainers with navy stitching - and move to her legs that are bare, tanned and topped with white shorts along with a skirt overlay. The top half of her attire is much the same, consists of what Trixie assumes is a white tank top and a whiter zip up hoodie that’s been left undone.

She’s able to make out the straps of the woman’s sports bra that cris-cross beneath the material, along with the circular gold pendant that dangles across her collarbones, disappears beneath the neckline of said top. The woman clears her throat when Trixie’s burning observations cease to halt, and Trixie’s cowering in the shadow of her green eyes, blushing as their eyes lock in the mirror.

Zamolodchikova.

“What are you doing here?”. Trixie blurts.

“Pissing?”. Katya responds.

They’re both stood motionless, Trixie’s mouth agape and Katya’s lips parted in a steady smirk that has Trixie snapping her jaw closed. They turn to face each other, hips propped against the damp sink counter, Trixie’s knees bending subconsciously in order to be closer to Katya’s height. Katya flexes on her toes responsively, brushes imaginary hairs away from her forehead that Trixie thinks might be as shiny as her own.

Katya looks up at her from behind the shields of her lashes - they’re coated in waterproof mascara, Trixie can tell from the clumps - and digs her top row of teeth into her bottom lip. Trixie cocks her head to the right, catches sight of her profile in the mirror to her left as she does so. Her nose looks too big on her face, obnoxious and attention seeking, and she wants to swipe it away, attempts to do so until Katya’s clearing her throat once more, attempting to garner a response from Trixie.

“In the staff toilets?”. Trixie chuckles, her shoulders tense.

“They’re always quieter”. Katya rationalises.

“Oh”. Trixie utters.

She’s silent once more. She keeps her eyes trained on Katya’s, only manoeuvres them when Katya’s smirk begins to falter, transforms into a worried grimace that makes Trixie’s shoulders slump from their position, tight atop of her spine. Trixie’s face softens too, and then Katya’s giggling with dropping eyelids, taking off her visor and dropping it next to the sink with the tap that’s dripping dripping dripping.

“Don’t tell on me”. Katya muses.

“I won’t-“. Trixie feels juvenile.

“I have to stay on your good side”. She adds.

“ _Huh_?”. Katya’s brow creases.

Shrugging her shoulders, Trixie peers at her watch. She’s got ten minutes until they’re next due to go live, commentate a match that’s set to be explosive, ruthless, and mentally hurries herself up. Katya’s still searching her face questioningly - she’s burrowing for answers that Trixie knows that she’s not going to find without Trixie herself voicing them - and licks across her lips that are tinted cherry with lip balm, Trixie determines.

“I’m meant to be interviewing you on Sunday-“. Trixie elaborates.

“-Wouldn’t want to jeopardise that, my company would kill me”. She chuckles lowly.

“You’re a reporter?”. Katya’s smirk returns.

Trixie mirrors it, shoves the worries about time, ticking, time to the back of her mind when she feels her phone vibrate in the pocket of her trousers. It’s Brian; Trixie decides that he and the other members of the production crew can wait, may learn to function without her when she focuses on Katya’s hands, the fingers that have risen to grip at Trixie’s elbow. 

“Commentator, interviewer, whatever you want to call me”. Trixie professes.

Katya squeezes at her elbow, trails her touch up to Trixie’s bicep that’s soft beneath the short sleeve of her shirt, drags her fingernails across the frilled hem. Trixie allows her to do so, enjoys her doing so, and discovers it impossible to hide the disappointment that clouds her face when Katya drops her arm once more.

“So you’ve seen me play all week?”. Katya’s interest is peaked.

“Yeah”. Trixie breathes.

“Think I’m doing good?”. Katya arches an eyebrow.

Katya has her crowded in against the sink - Trixie doesn’t understand how - and is breathing hotly into Trixie’s face, warm and moist air tickling at her chin. She’s beaming up at Trixie, twiddling with the zip on her hoodie that dangles at her hip, dragging it from top to bottom menially as Trixie’s eyes follow it. Katya continues her ministrations until Trixie opens her mouth in preparation to speak, and then pauses, rests her hands daintily on the counter each side of Trixie.

“You always do”. Trixie manages.

“That so?”. Katya checks.

“Yeah-“. Trixie acknowledges.

“-I work for LCR, we’ve covered most of your matches for years”. She concludes.

Eyes illuminating, Katya grins openly. She takes a step backwards, allows Trixie the room she’s been craving yet not needing to breathe, and clips her forgotten visor onto one of the belt loops of her shorts. It swings back and forth, brushes against the counter, picks up dribbling drops of water that flow down the edge. 

“LCR! Like the fun version of the BBC”. Katya chortles.

“Exactly”. Trixie drones.

Katya nods her head excitedly, clicks when she notices Trixie glance at her watch for the third time in the space of a handful of minutes, and motions towards the door on the far side of the room. She begins walking towards it at snails pace, her toned legs carrying her in the direction of the exit as Trixie’s ankles remain locked next to the row of six, seven sinks.

“Alright, well, you’ll definitely see me on Sunday. I’ll be there in all of my _it’s my only day off a week_ glory”. Katya snorts.

“Poor you”. Trixie jokes.

“I think I’ll survive”. Katya winks.

She’s out of the door before Trixie’s able to respond, is on her way with a meagre shrug of her shoulders and wave of her hand that signals goodbye. Trixie stands unmoving once more - her mind tells her that she’d conjured up the image of Zamolodchikova, _Katya_ \- only begins functioning once more when her phone buzzes a further three times in the front pocket of her trousers -

\- She still has a mixed doubles match to commentate before her day is over.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m also on tumblr @ silvervelour!! come and send me asks/messages!


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